Science of love: look into Gītā's eyes in the Homeland
(Swades)

[Counters temporarily disabled]

Homage to Gâyatrî's eloquent gaze, Gowarikar's creative
vision

and the contemporary (pano-) Râma of our national epic

Having decided to make this monologue available to the public, I would like
to offer a conceptual grid of the underlying architecture of the various
perspectives developed and woven together in this cascade of impressionistic
musings on apparently disparate topics. This digest of posts on the aesthetics
of the gaze in Swades is best summarized by the following two paragraphs completed
in mid-October 2009 for my paper presented at the DANAM conference:

In Swades, the aesthetics of the gaze (nazar),
enshrined in Sanskrit poetics and so central to the Indian sensibility,
is also the portal to a more profound alchemy of love that dissolves the
self-centered private life and opens it up emotionally to the world. At
the Delhi bookshop, Gītā's riveting stare was as intimidating as her intelligence
and even its momentary flicker of good humor was but a sarcastic condescension.
Forced into close proximity in the village home, her withdrawn eyes, if
not glaring hostilely as when intruded upon in the classroom, remained averted
with the minimal engagement required by polite hospitality. A brief but
entire night scene is devoted to Mohan gazing with curious wonder through
his caravan window upon the languid Gītā working unawares at her desk. Instead
of acknowledging his friendly nod, she looks back coldly and switches off
the light abruptly. When the family drops in the next morning to take him
to the village assembly, Mohan’s insistent eye language forces Gītā
to notice and hide his cigarette pack from Kaveriamma, but the accomplice
responds in kind with obvious displeasure and complies only to immediately
look away in a huff. When she emerges in modest finery to greet her suitors,
she turns to Mohan more with embarrassment, compounded with hopelessness
as they leave empty handed. When the Bollywood movie-song begins to work
its magic, her furtive almost involuntary glances at the handsome stranger
seated beside her are immediately withdrawn and only serve to inflame her
resentment at his uninvited intrusion into her 'idyllic' life. Once remorse
at undeservedly punishing him with the duster has dissolved her inner resistance,
her eyes can no longer hide her sentiments despite the distance maintained
by modesty and pride. Three of the discarded scenes in the bonus DVD confirm
how the dueling gaze has taken on the psychological brunt of mediating the
delicate balance between privacy and intimacy, self and other. Mohan is
sleeping in the central courtyard (instead of the caravan) and follows the
dream-like nymph (apsaras) intently with secret
eyes as she waters the plants, humming after her morning bath. The second
is of both of them singing Kaveriamma to sleep, in unison, with the same
lullaby to which she used to put them as infants to bed; and the third of
the remorseful Gītā nursing the wounded forehead of a still teasing Mohan.
Though tasteful in and of themselves these (over-) intimate scenes would
have marred the rasa-development and
cheated us of the final reward. So when she watches from a distance Mohan
setting off on her rent-collecting errand, he walks up to her at the doorway
and tells her not to miss him too much. When she coolly mocks his presumption,
he reveals that her eyes are betraying all despite her conscious reserve.
Cheekily forced to acknowledge her feelings, she bursts out into solitary
but exuberant song (Sâwariyan), interspersed with picturesque images of
the by now distant traveler, that celebrates the preciousness of the gaze.
Though still tongue tied after Mohan's return, she has no longer any qualms,
while tying the NRI's dhoti for the Dusshera festival, about blatantly feasting
her eyes upon her now discomfited charmer. Aesthetically, the culmination
of their and our romantic interest is when she intrudes upon Mohan in his
caravan, while he is engrossed in working out the equations for his engineering
feat. She announces her unexpected presence by interrupting to resolve his
verbal calculations, as she had at their first meeting, but only this time
she continues by playfully pretending to be stumped so as to belie his indulgent
skepticism with her delayed correct answer. Her accompanying full-moon smile
is ample recompense for all the indignities that we have had to endure on
behalf of the much maligned hero, and the two are now united in the fulfilling
duet of an ode to love.

Their courtship thereafter is depicted only through idyllic scenes, especially
at the temple ghats, spliced into the progress of the great collective undertaking
spearheaded by our natural leader with this 'Kasturibai' (Mahatma Gandhi's
devoted wife) at his side. Tormented on the day of his departure and fearful
of revealing the depth of her feelings in public, the conspicuously absent
Gītā awaits his caravan alone on the bridge at the boundary of the village,
as if she were the tutelary goddess of the local territory (grâma-devatâ).
She reaffirms to Mohan, who is overwhelmed with guilt and self-recrimination
at having taken advantage of her sentiments, her understanding of his predicament
and her impossible love. Presenting him a small chest whose compartments
are filled with simple tokens—pebbles, herbs, flowers, spices, etc.—of
their land, she expresses the fervent hope that they would for ever remind
him of his true home. As the caravan rolls away reluctantly, with the driver
looking back intently through the rearview mirror, the despairing modern-day
Sîtâ prays inwardly for him to turn back, as if she were repeating a mantra,
but reopens her eyes only to see him already gone. Though Swades is not
a religious film overtly promoting Râma-bhakti,
much less the ritual worship of his temple image, it is a profound exploration
of the manner in which romantic love is transformed, through a universally
attested form of spontaneous idolatry, into selfless devotion. It was Gītā's
newfound fascination with her reflection in the otherwise familiar mirror
that had called forth the joyous abandonment of self in her first love song
(Sâwariyân), for the loveliness she begins to recognize therein is her enhanced
portrait in the eyes of her beloved Mohan. As Gītā idolizes Mohan as the
flesh-and-blood hero of her most cherished dreams, the latter willy-nilly
transforms himself into the very idol he sees in the eyes of his worshipper.
Having ridiculed her for high-flown ideals that would scare off any realistic
suitor, he finds himself repeating her very words to persuade others to
acquiesce in their own uplifting ("are a woman's hands good only for
ornamenting with henna?" etc.). In this win-win resolution, Mohan has
fallen in love not just with Gītā but with his own pre-figuration in the
heartfelt prayers of this abandoned Sîtâ, and Gītā not just with Mohan but
with the (self-) fulfillment of her aspirations of service (sevā)
through the agency of this long-exiled contemporary Râma. The lovers begin
to realize that they never knew who they 'really' were and could be until
mutual love compels them to recognize the self in the other. Despite their
initial estrangement, our quarrelling lovers are artfully identified with
a contemporary reinterpretation of the idealized couple. The psychological
process of assimilating the god's divine qualities through practicing regular ‘visions’
(darshan) of and by his idol is here naturally
induced through the reciprocating gaze of the beloved. Gītā's rapt attention,
while praying to Sîtâ-Râma on Mohan's presentation to the temple, was already
distracted to his revelatory musings on the meaning of Charanpur. Gītā's
self-confession to her Sâwariyan streams forth on these very ghats of their
riverfront temple, and the plaintive song—pal pal hai bhârî
(“each moment weighs oh so heavily”)—that she later sings,
as Sîtâ pining under the Ashoka tree, is already rendered hauntingly on
the wordless flute during this first visit. During the Ram-Lila, even
as this despairing Sîtâ clings to her praises of Râma before a menacingly
skeptical Râvana, Mohan answers her call by interrupting Gītā to usurp the
epic role here and now. Bhakti amounts, in
Abhinavagupta’s non-dual ‘doctrine of recognition’ (pratyabhijñâ),
to projecting and enjoying one's own Self through the external form of an
idol. This abstruse metaphysical principle, beyond the ken of so many Hindu
champions obsessed with the 'historical' Râma, has been intuitively felt
in other climes by every Romeo-and-Juliet.

Readers will appreciate the illustrated musings in the following posts better,
if they first take the trouble to read the above paper in its entirety and attempt
to hold Swades in their mind's eye as a coherent whole.

Before even introducing these musings in the light of Abhinava's aesthetics
of love, I would urge readers—particularly those who feel that their appreciation
of Swades has been sufficiently enhanced by my
labors—to take the resolve to purchase the 2-DVD set of the movie
as a personal endorsement of Ashutosh Gowarikar's creative vision,
and to encourage him to produce even more brilliant works of art that are as
delightful as they are illuminating and inspiring. The arguments being made,
often directly by Gītā herself, will be even more persuasive when you hover
the mouse-cursor over her standalone still frames. As for the embedded YouTube
clips (with English subtitles) below, I uploaded them under the sort of 'fair-use'
policy that typically governs scholarly citations serving as illustrations to
make a theoretical point: they also constitute in themselves an interpretative
narrative of the (love-) gaze (nazar)
at the aesthetic core of Swades. Each clip begins
and ends with a meditative pause on a still frame (typically of Gâyatrî's eyes)
that has been carefully extracted from the enclosed animated interaction. These
parenthetical frames have been captioned with ambiguous and suggestive queries
that serve to highlight the extent to which the movie itself, whether consciously
or not, is making so many of the fundamental psychological and even 'metaphysical'
claims that I am advancing in this philosophical review. Unfortunately, several
of the (especially third-party) video clips embedded in these posts have since
been removed from YouTube due to copyright violation. Please feel free to post
your well-considered comments (subject to approval) on (my interpretation here
of) the corresponding video-clip directly at YouTube:

[Playlist deleted - need alternative solution]

No-nonsense (Bollywood?) types for whom "seeing is believing"
may prefer to enjoy the visual feast of (seeing the world through) Gītā's eyes
by first of all reviewing in sequence my close-captioned sequence of subtitled
video-clips (playlist above), faithful to the movie timeline, of episodes that
raise the various questions that this essay attempts to explore if not definitively
answer. More philosophical (neo-Vedantic?) types for whom "everything
is illusion" may prefer to engage the theoretical issues before evaluating
for themselves how she responds to them on behalf of not just director Gowarikar
but also against the backdrop of Indian aesthetic sensibility. This extended
multimedia review, with links to movie clips at YouTube from Ashutosh Gowarikar's
Swades, was intended as a major contribution to an ongoing dialogue on the complex
relationship between love (śṛṅgāra), devotion
(bhakti), and (community) service (sevā),
from the perspective of Abhinavagupta's aesthetics of
rasa. I have inserted introductory comments to contextualize some
of the posts. The original message (of 8th November 2007) interpreting this
narrative of the gaze has been greatly amplified and revised in the light of
the subsequent posts below, the substance of which have been left largely intact
(other than for subsequent copy-editing). Posts from Nov-Dec 2007 dealing with
other psychological and socio-political issues have been moved to the separate
digest on "Nostalgia
and the Homeland" (November 2009).

[I
have subsequently edited and amplified this first post of 08 Nov 2007 to further
clarify the, otherwise easy-to-miss, internal correspondences and wider resonances
of the artistic details of the movie; click the link to the Abhinava forum archive
for the original post, which had links to YouTube instead of embedded video
clips- SV]

“Hesitating to act because the whole vision might not be achieved,
or because others do not yet share it, is an attitude that only hinders
progress.”

Citation from Mohandas K. Gandhi that opens the movie,
Swades, whose main protagonist is likewise named Mohan

Good raga, but why girls on the picture? If he says yar
then it is not Girl but Allah. Know it before you do something please. All
Raga and Ghazal is related to Allah (or Eshq majaz) and not this world stupid
girls.

Since he can't put Allah on the video, why not God's beautiful
creatures :)

Dude, we are talking about
Awyal's poems. We cannot add half naked women with them... Oh, seeing God
in them is also funny because what will be the next step? Seeing God in
porn movies? Come on dega!!!

Loser. You dont even understand his comment. Try to understand,
and respond after that!

Loser? why that? anything against Quraan is not accepted by
Awliya (Hafiz saheb, Bedil Saheb)... And putting half naked female with
those holy words is just [not? - SV] acceptable...
no too much half naked women in this video, but what other video's... BTW,
it is my opinion, please write your opinion and don't attack on a person
by saying that he is a loser :) OK?

[Could someone translate the exchange of Arabic (?) citations
in the subsequent dialogue left out here? - SV]

The last verse, also from Amaru, is cited by Abhinava in his
Locana, as an example of the suggestion of
the “cessation of a transitory emotion” (bhāva-praśama).
An exceptional delight is offered by the skilful presentation of the fading
away of a passing mood, and that is why it is privileged as a separate category.
According to Abhinava, the verse under discussion captures the subsiding
of pride having jealous resentment (sulking) as its essence. But the same
verse is again analyzed by Abhinava in his
Abhinavabhāratī
to show how vipralambha[love-in-separation]
and sambhoga[love-in-union] are not mutually
exclusive but each necessarily includes the other. His remarks, if their
implications are drawn out, will already permit the critically attentive
reader to appreciate why hāsya[humor]
is an inevitable ancillary of sambhoga-śṛṅgāra. “Both
these conditions (sambhoga and
vipralambha) are pervaded by love (rati),
in the form of the mutual bond of affection, which on being
[<275-276>] relished becomes
śṛṅgāra…. This is why in
sambhoga there is the fear of the possibility
of separation (vipralambha) and
vipralambha too is penetrated by the imaginative
desire for union (sambhoga). Such is the nature
of śṛṅgāra. Where there is
rati in the form of the bond of mutual affection,
it includes within itself longing, jealousy, exile
[as when the captive Sîtâ, confined under the Ashoka tree in Râvana's Lankâ,
pines for Râma - SV],
and other conditions. Hence terms like ‘sambhoga-śṛṅgāra’
are used figuratively, by extension even when there is no sexual union.
That is why it is the blending of these two conditions that is indeed
truly of supreme aesthetic appeal. As in:

Lying together in the bedThey kept a sullen silence
grim,Faces averted and suffocating with prideThough hearts relented
within,And not a word to her he saidAnd she refused to speak to
him.But glances chance to interlace:A moment’s
pause, and both thereafterForget resentment and..........
dissolving in a gale of laughter
...........embrace!

[Amaru-shataka no.
21]

Here there is the supreme experience of
rasa in the form of the blending of ‘separation-due-to-jealousy’
and union, produced by determinants, consequents and transitory emotions
pertaining to both (âzrayas) but having a
single essence…. Like the performance of bath, etc.,(the representation of mere) sexual union (bhoga)
is[<276-277>]devoid of any rasa."
[direct citation from Abhinava]

It may seem obvious to every starry-eyed lover but psychologists have
now proved it to be true – if you want someone to find you attractive,
look them in the face and smile. A strong jaw for men, high cheek-bones
in women, a perfectly-shaped nose or unblemished skin may be the physical
signs of sexual attractiveness, but it is the gaze of the eyes that really
counts.Psychologists have shown
for the first time that you are more likely to find a happy-looking face
that looks directly at you sexually attractive than the equally smiling
face of someone who is averting their eyes. The findings support the theory
that both men and women use the direction of a person's gaze as a signal
of whether that person finds you interesting enough to look you directly
in the face – and that sign of interest is, in itself, seen as attractive
to the observer.
[...] "They are assessing who is likely to like
them. It's not so much about holding eye contact with a member of the opposite
sex, it's about looking at someone who you are interested in," he said. "It
is all part of an ancient need to concentrate one's limited courting resources
on potential mates who are realistically interested in you. "It wouldn't
pay me, for instance, to spend time and effort on chasing supermodels but
it would pay me to concentrate on women who smile at me in the street,"
he explained.[...]This shows both men and women prefer faces of people who seem to
like them and that attractiveness is not just about physical beauty. "It's
the first demonstration to show people's preferences for being looked at
depends on the emotional state of the person who is doing the looking, as
well as their sex," Dr Jones said."It makes common sense, but it's the first time it's been shown.
What we've shown is that people seem to like someone who likes them –
based on the direction of their gaze – and it's particularly true
of the opposite sex," he said.

Rasa is therefore not simply an emotional
response to artistic stimuli but the inner organizing principle of a distinct
mode of apperception (anuvyavasâya-vizeSa), their
raison d’être, and very meaning. This ‘identification’
(tanmayî-bhavana) is so complete that we seem to
be experiencing the same emotion without any distinction of self and other.
This is precisely why our whole-hearted enjoyment of Sîtâ’s beauty
through the eyes of Lord Râma is no stigma to Indian aesthetics. Considering
the real-life infatuation that actors (Amitabh Bacchan, M.G. Ramachandran,
now Shahrukh Khan) and actresses (Aishwarya Rai and, more recently, Gayatri
Joshi in Swades) can evoke in their fans, it is worth noting that
the shared enjoyment of the heroine (nâyikâ), even
vicariously in theater, posed a dilemma to the Indian ethical consciousness.
This ingenious concept of tanmayîbhavana removes
the moral compunction even while sanctioning the unreserved sensuous delight. [ad
note #12][...] Abhinava’s
esoteric treatment of
eros (kâma) might
best explain king Bhoja’s
- he was himself a contemporary Tântrika - public elevation of
śṛṅgāra to the supreme
rasa from which not only all the others but even the worldly passions
emerge, and around which are centered all ego-centric human pursuits (of
the life-goals). What Bhoja’s
great literary synthesis, the śṛṅgāra-Prakâsha
attempts might be understood as a sort of Hindu‘psychoanalysis’
- but from the perspective of a thoroughly aestheticized’ sexuality
- that not only embraces morality and love (prema)
but equates eros with the (self-aware and synthesizing) ego-function(aham-kâra),whereas
Freud<’s materialism posits a polar opposition between libidinous
instinct (id) and individual adaptation. [note #64]

When Elizabeth and I saw Swades
together in Paris, just after its release in December 2004 (and as I was
working on the above essay on Abhinava's aesthetics), I was thrilled by the 'idealistic'
theme of a successful NRI (Shâhrukh Khan as Mohan Bhargava), a valued project
manager at NASA, returning to (village) India to serve (sevā)
his people for good. And also by the parallel representation of the neglected
motherland by his doting (but since long abandoned) foster-mother (Kâveri-amma)
and of her concealed charms by the latter's adopted school-teacher 'daughter'
(Gītā played by Gâyatrî Joshi). Though I was thoroughly charmed by Gâyatrî's
beautiful depiction of a self-liberating Indian womanhood, it's only just recently,
upon reviewing, on YouTube, various sequences (and juxtaposing the clips of
thematically and psychologically related scenes that are widely separated
on the timeline) that I realized the extent to which I had been, perhaps unconsciously,
hypnotized by her (often scornful) gaze. It's relevant to note, in
this context, that director Ashutosh Gowarikar (of
Lagaan fame) had been vainly auditioning many (would-be) actresses as prospects
for Gītā's role, before he happened to recall having met Gâyatrî at a party.
Apparently, he had retained something of that innocent encounter, the aesthetic
possibilities of which did not occur to him immediately, in much the same way
that we come to appreciate Swades for all that
it is only after having repeatedly looked at, and through, Gītā's eyes. No doubt,
the sentimental ruse intended (by Gowarikar's artistry) to impress upon
us all his own 'patriotic' message: he had driven a stake through my heart
without my even realizing it! Is this extended movie review no more than an
attempt to dislodge the sweet poison?

Returning to India is above all to be (re-) immersed in an intangible sensibility
that is almost impossible to define in abstract terms or to describe meaningfully.
Though best expressed through interpersonal relations that may be captured on
the screen, this aesthetic quality needs commentary to be properly appreciated
both by foreigners, who cannot help remarking its strangeness without being
able to comprehend it, and also by Indians, who take it so much for granted
that they no longer even notice its uniqueness. The initial encounter of the
opposite sexes—with Gītā—in the Delhi bookshop is in fact embedded
within the 'joking relationship' of the owner Rahul and his NRI friend Mohan
that captures the sort of 'bonhomie' that characterizes interactions among male
Indian friends. On the face of it, they are communicating quite intelligibly
about the most immediate, mundane, and pragmatic business: here's a map
where you should be able to locate Caranpur, please mind the sales counter while
I rush off to the bank to secure a loan for my business, no problem, how come
you've left the counter unattended, of course I'll find you a caravan, etc.
But if we listen to what they are actually saying in Hindi (not translated literally
in the subtitles), they seem to be talking plain nonsense: "this (map)
will cost (you) 150 rupees" [Rahul]; "That's OK, Don't pay me"
[Mohan]; "Are you going to rob the bank?" [Mohan]; "No, please
mind the counter" [Rahul]; "I'll just sit there" [Mohan]; "Fit"
[Rahul]; "Fit" [Mohan] "Your first day, and you're already sick
of the job?" [Rahul]; "You've made a profit (the 50 rupees change
that Gītā didn't wait to collect) for the company on your very first day...you've
got the job!" [Rahul]; OK OK Mr. NRI, you'll have your caravan, don't worry"
[Rahul]. Obviously, something else is being communicated than information through
the rather idiosyncratic Indian humor, which is that I enjoy your company enough
to tease and be teased. Such silly good-natured bantering (Indian women have
developed their own styles of such, sometimes merciless, teasing as may
be also seen in Bollywood movies)—which is one of the first things that
struck me about Indians (as opposed to Malaysians), especially while travelling
in the company of complete strangers on trains— should alert us that the
embedded initial encounter between Mohan and Gītā might herald an implicit treatise
on what's so different about the romantic sensibility in Indian culture.

Gâyatrî's intelligent and riveting gaze is like a dagger as Mohan learns,
to his great discomfiture, at the very first ('accidental') encounter in a Delhi
bookshop with the childhood playmate whom he (unlike her) otherwise does
not recognize:

Note that Gītā is an intimidating math wiz, who can crunch out the numbers
before you can even punch them into the calculator.

Their entire interaction in the village may be summed up as a recurring tussle
between Mohan's desire to take Kaveriamma back with him (from all this misery) to
the US and Gītā's equally stubborn determination to ensure that this 'traitorous
non-returning Indian' (NRI!) 'returns' empty-handed. Is it preferable to have
an attractive and intelligent woman grace you with a scornful look or to
watch her avert her gaze and reserve her affectionate attention for others...you
decide:

He gets the cold-shoulder and is quickly shown the door when he intrudes
into her classroom 'to be 'formally' introduced by her kid brother...). He then
inadvertently trips her at the threshold, when she returns home after school,
into dropping her book like the earlier 'oaf' did in the bookshop (all the more
irritating as she has lost her bet with Kaveriamma that this NRI 'son' would
never return...)

Though Gītā welcomes Mohan as a guest into her village home, she maintains
a cool distance that is guarded especially by her reserved and averted gaze.
She not only doesn't approve of cocky better-than-thou NRIs, but is also wary
of this rival for the affection of Kaveriamma. Mohan retires to spend the first
night in his caravan where he continues to work late on his NASA project. He
inadvertently notices Gītā at her table engrossed in schoolwork unawares that
he's peering at her curiously through the window: he catches her disengaging
into a pensively languorous mood. A 'voyeuristic' scene that might be construed
as a very restrained and sublimated psychological echo of the 'languid maiden'
(âlasya-kanyâ) of Sanskrit erotics, who is all
the more enchanting for relapsing into a natural unselfconscious state (the
director's intention becomes even more apparent upon watching the discarded
scene entitled "Mohan Falling in Love" when he wakes up indoors to
the soft humming of Gītā watering the potted plants after her bath). The friendly
acknowledgement from his courteous eyes, when she eventually catches him looking,
is rebuffed with a blank indifferent stare before she switches off the light
abruptly to spurn his intrusion into her privacy. However, the next morning
she can't avoid the intricate eye-communication through which he forces her
into unwilling complicity in his bad habit of smoking, as he silently urges
her to hide the incriminating cigarette pack from being discovered by Kaveriamma.
His thankful nod before being obliged to respond to the rustic amazement at
his well-equipped house on wheels is, this time, greeted with a haughty upward
turning away of the gaze that seems to be saying: "I'm not impressed, nor
even really interested. So why don't you stop making eyes at me once and for
all?" After all, even the God with the most 'captivating' (mohana)
eyes ever seen still has to make such great efforts and endure much pain before
the feminine soul willingly bares all to his relentless gaze!

After the meeting of the village assembly (pañcâyat),
Kaveriamma introduces Mohan to the elders (sarpanch)
before taking him to the stepped landings (ghâts)
to the river where stands the temple to Lord Râma (with his brother Lakshmana)
and his consort Sîtâ. Mohan is overcome by the tranquil beauty of the setting,
and learns that Charanpur is named after the footprints of the divinized couple.
This brief scene is significant because of the haunting background flute-rendering
of Pal pal hai bhârî ("every moment weighs
so heavily...") that (Gītā later in her Râmlîlâ role as) Sîtâ will sing
to beseech Râma (only to hear Mohan answer her call for the betterment of this
rural community). While offering her prayers now with folded hands, the otherwise
reserved Gītā is indeed intently scrutinizing Mohan's face to fathom his responses
to the surroundings, as his new family takes him on an idyllic tour of the rest
of the village scenery. This holy site is of central significance for it provides
the stage for not only their Râmlîlâ but their final reunion around a wrestling
match where Mohan sportingly triumphs over the village Râvana.

Mohan realizes early on that Gītā needs to be safely married off, if Kaveriamma
is ever to agree to accompany him back alone to the US. The foster
mother's attempts to find a suitable match for the idealistic Gītā always
run into the same hurdle: she's too independent and wants to continue teaching
after marriage whereas her orthodox suitors insist that the woman's place is
in the home (and, in fact, it would be disgraceful to give others the impression
that the husband is unable to support his wife...). The particular episode to
which Mohan unwittingly becomes the witness ends with the poor girl, who never
loses her dignity, silently watching the backs of the disappointed boy and his
parents as they head for the door, the way they came. The exchange of gazes
occurs both at the beginning, when the bride-to-be emerges from her room to
greet the visitors and sees Mohan dumbstruck by her beauty, and as they leave,
when he is trying to discern her state of mind: concealed embarrassment, sympathy
for her plight, inklings of other alternatives, who knows?....what matters is
the mutual interest in the other's perception (and Mohan's inner exultation
at the mismatched attempt):

The post-mortem that follows over lunch is a curious exercise in triangulation:
Mohan's evaluation vacillates between endorsing Kaveriamma's sense of loss ("after
all, you could have converted him after marriage," etc.) and Gītā's foresight
("you can change a man's habits but not his ingrained way of thinking...the
next thing you know, he'll be asking for a dowry!"). However, when he latches
on to her cue to criticize Indian 'backwardness' in all things as contrasted
with innovators like himself ("designing mundane hardware that carries
humble bits, bytes, sounds and images across the world sitting in satellites
that orbit our little planet earth"), Gītā becomes not only defensive of
her traditions (paramparâ) and native culture
(samskâra) but goes on the offensive that while
people like her are "working at the grass roots," NRIs like him "have
given up on hope itself." And, of course, Kaveriamma is inclined (marriage
or no marriage) to agree with her.

He even blurts out, in the spur of the argument, the
us/them 'superiority-complex' (borrowed omnipotence?) implied, for example, in
the ill-thought-out posts of some NRIs on this list, including those who might
otherwise shudder at consciously thinking such thoughts: he chides Gītā for
being a "typical Indian" and addresses them both as "you Indians
who never admit their faults!" When Kaveriamma repeats his words with
disbelief, he immediately corrects himself into "sorry, we Indians"
(such a remark from me would have probably prompted a tongue-lashing from
a surprised, though still very French, Elizabeth...though, happy to say,
it looks like I've yet to provide the occasion...):

When all is said and the meal is done, Kaveriamma's predicament still remains
and Mohan proposes the solution (while Gītā is temporarily out of earshot...?):
you find her the right mate, while I find the pupils to ensure that her school
survives.

The next (literally) starry-eyed episode is the rare screening of a romantic
movie that the whole village, including the untouchable families and children,
has gathered around to watch from their respective sides of the large screen
that separates the high from the low. The movie ("The union of memories")
is about (the songs and sentiments surrounding) a marriage celebration, and
naturally the wider intrigue includes Mohan and Gītā exchanging furtive glances
(while the heroine sings: "you've stolen my heart" in this very manner)
during the sensitive sequences: Bollywood today, like the classical Sanskrit
theater in its own time, draws upon a shared emotional sensibility even while
reinforcing and generalizing the same through providing a common idiom
and frame of reference that transcends barriers of language and caste:

When the electricity fails at the lyrical highpoint, Mohan saves the night
by spontaneously improvising a public (including adult) education class in recognizing
(and reaching up for) the constellations to the tune of A. R. Rehman's score
("this star, that star, each star"). As he begins to hop back and
forth between the opposing sides of the screen to ensure maximum audience participation,
the postmaster simply tears down this barrier while the everyone, including
the village elders, look on with appreciative consternation at the illuminating
antics of this goofy 'foreigner' (NRI). Instead of indulging in accusatory rhetoric,
he 'simply' points them towards a common goal to which they could all put their
shoulders.

While Gītā is grateful for all that he's doing for (her by way of) the village
school, she's also alarmed at the ease with which he's ingratiating himself
into everyone's (including her own) heart (though she doesn't yet recognize
this herself). She gets up to leave, keeps looking back in grudging appreciation
(#11), and finally lies in wait, when the show is over, at the back of his
caravan to demand why he's come back to trouble her peace of mind by wanting
to take Kaveriamma away:

She finally confesses to a surprised Mohan that she gave him false directions
at the Delhi bookstore to her village, so that he'd never get here, followed
by mutual accusations of wanting to take advantage of their (foster-) mother
as an (unpaid) house-maid (whether in Charanpur or in America). This 'hitting
below the belt' attempt at 'resolution' ends in a deadlock, with each determined
to have his/her way over their shared object of affection.

The ongoing tussle begins (04:35) with her declaring loudly to Kaveriamma
tp stop looking for a match for she's decided never to get married (and
would hence remain dependent on her foster-mother for bringing up at least her
kid brother), and his retorting who would want to marry any girl with such "great
expectations" (despite 'conceding' that she's not lacking in beauty),
while intimating that there just might be one person who might be willing to
put up with her (Kaveriamma?).

The stage is thus all set for tug-of-war of egos
- it's not for nothing that king Bhoja, the tântrika, associates and even equates
śṛṅgāra with ahamkâra
('egoism') - each bent on its own perception and anticipation of conquest.

Gītā accosts the bathing Mohan with charges of putting
dreams of America into her kid brother's mind, and his primarily line of defense
is to admit teasingly that he's actually taken a liking to her impressed from
the very start by her merciless pounding of the unfortunate customer at the
bookstore...attempts at "buttering" her into acquiescence that only
infuriate her all the more against this "non-returning Indian" (NRI):
only angry stares and cowering protest here.

She stomps off declaring that he's more in need of
an education than her school kids. Desperate at finding a suitable match for
this girl who stubbornly refuses to become an honorably domesticated maid, Kaveriamma
begins to take increasing satisfaction overhearing their constant bickering
and assaults on each other's vanity. For any self-respecting Hindu who's done
their homework on the amours of Krishna and Râdhâ knows that quarrelling is
the spicy catalyst of love (as that 'narcissistic'
Kathak girl on the Benares rooftop muses: "I have to pretend like Râdhâ,
and in that song there is love also and fighting together...[03:09] it never
ends, never ends...he's going and dance going" [05:24]). Kaveriamma might
perhaps not have the benefit of an astrologer to read the stars (and match horoscopes),
but her unschooled eyes can see the stars twinkling in eyes that are still too
blinded by transitory (vyabhicâri) emotions to
recognize the undertow.

When Mohan makes matters worse by taking Gītā's challenge at her word
and an uninvited backseat in her elementary class, much to the jubilation
of her pupils, the disconcerted teacher is gleeful at the chance to inflict
a humiliating lesson:

Mohan miserably flunks each question (what are the five major rivers of India,
the new state carved out of Uttar Pradesh, the number of lion faces on the Ashokan
pillar, etc.) that the hand-waving kids are jumping to answer with ease. After
drawing the lesson on "the need to learn about one's own country before
going elsewhere," she dismisses the class, and contemptuously turns her
back to dust the blackboard. Mohan then sheds his cocoon of mock ignorance to
reveal his true grasp of Indian geography, politics, demography, history, etc.,
while walking up to her from behind to the blackboard. Her exultant moment of
triumph suddenly deflated, she keeps wiping the already clean board unable
to turn to face him.

Is her helpless gaze, when he suddenly swings her around by force, speaking
confusion, remorse, trepidation, expectation, or something else? Especially,
when he begins to confess...what? Does she know herself? Strike back in panic!

As the panic at being caught off-guard in a compromising situation subsides,
she discovers that her fellow teacher had called out her name only to present
a parent couple who wanted to commit their two kids to the school because Mohan
had succeeded in convincing them of the value of a sound education. Gītā appreciatively
requests them to enroll during the auspicious Dashera celebration at the school.
She now has the choice of two conflicting readings of these developments: Mohan
is ensuring that her independent career as a schoolteacher takes off so as to
take Kaveriamma away to America and is mockingly indulging her own self-estimation
as an intelligent woman (as his deception just now would seem to prove), or
he has not only made her ambitions his own but has stooped to a level lower
than that of her primary class, all for the sake of winning her love...

Am I just one of these star-struck fans who is reading into Gâyatrî's eyes
sentiments that she, like Sîtâ spurning Râvanâ, in no way really shares? Here,
(a vainglorious?) Mohan is teasing Miss Aloof not to miss his absence from the
village:

When she mocks back rather indulgently, "whoever told you that I'd be
even thinking of you?" he states the (even to all of us) obvious, "your
eyes," of course, "they say everything!" (and, naturally, she's
inwardly relieved that her game is up without having to openly compromise
herself). In fact, Kaveriamma is sending Mohan off on this overnight trip to
a distant village not only (in a vain attempt) to collect overdue rent from a
destitute tenant farmer (and thereby discover, at first hand, just how much
his motherland needs his experience, skills, and resources, here...), but also
to make them both, especially Gītā, realize the nature and depth of their feelings
for each other ("absence makes the heart grow fonder" as Abhinava
says). There's no way to express this dynamic better than by interspersing picturesque
scenes from his trek by land and sea with clips of her confessing her new found
love to all of nature back in the village: "Now that we've met the whole
world is transformed...all's changed, my love, since my eyes courted thine;
I've lost my presence of mind, gone is my treasured selfhood. O beloved, I'm
simply infatuated, now that you've enchanted my heart!"

Upon his return, he doesn't know how to tie his
dhoti for the village assembly on the occasion
of the Dasshera festival; watch how the now subdued (but still 'untamed')
Gītā keeps looking dumbly at him while tersely doing the needful:

The Sanskrit term for (a maiden with) such a spellbound
innocent look is mugdhâ ('infatuated'), which
is why she curtly tells him to "shut up!" (when he tries to joke at
the end).

We may now go on to enjoy (Gītā playing the role of)
the ascetic Sîtâ, spurning the advances of a rustic Râvana (played by the
postmaster), but through the eyes of her virtuous husband Râma (or
of the love-stricken Mohan who interrupts the performance?):

An auspicious sight on this Diwali to bear witness,
once again, to the redeeming of Sîtâ's honor and the (re-) establishment
of dharma (note how real and present all this
is to the villagers)!

But the "proof of the pudding" of the "science of love"
is always in the eating. Here we finally get to see Gītā (come
by his caravan only to) gaze longingly at Mohan. Bollywood, as an exponent of
rasa, can take the same number-crunching
of the original encounter that heralded their subsequent battle of wits, and
transform this formula to the nth degree of romance (women in Abhinava's time
were not so educated, let alone school-teachers!). After enduring unforgiving
glances, gratuitous barbs, physical assault by the 'weaker' sex while trying
to take a bath (to the 'teenage' tune of "I've been waiting for a girl
like you"), and even a hard knock on the forehead with a soiled duster
(simply for getting all his quiz answers more than correct :-), the erotic climax
is the sight of her now breaking out, after playfully dumbing down her formidable
IQ, into full-faced joyful laughter at his mock obeisance. Mohan's prize is
indeed a trophy—the cool light of the full-moon
that illumines the whole movie and the soothes our hearts— that Abhinava
himself would have delighted in:

When her smiling eyes have already "let the cat
out of the bag" what's there left to conceal but to come back, dressed
again for the occasion (Passion has made her so bold that she comes straight
to the point without bothering to consider that he is deeply engrossed, right
now, in the more pressing challenge of solving the problem of bringing electricity
to the village. How many of us are aware that this natural 'regression' of a
haughtily self-sufficing (and intelligent) woman (mâninî)
into the 'dumb' infatuation of a 'schoolgirl' (mugdhâ)
only to 'unexpectedly' re-emerge as an 'impudently forward' lover (pragalbhâ)
who insists on seizing the initiative, is but a contemporary reenactment of
the categories described in profuse detail by the Hindu "science of love"
(kâmâ-zâstra), and illustrated by Sanskrit poetics
(alankâra-zâstra)?

The various stages that follow of his new collective
project of restoring "full power" to the village are (psychologically)
interlaced with vignettes of their courtship...to the stereotypical, but relatively
restrained, accompaniment of Bollywood song amidst idyllic village scenes. When
Mohan's (repeatedly extended "two week") vacation in Charanpur draws
to a close under the pressing schedule of the NASA satellite launch, Gītā is
prepared to marry him but still, most unhappily, refuses to give up her school
and commitment to educate her community. Kaveriamma, who was never enthusiastic
about adapting, at her age, to a new life in America, has even less reason now
to accompany him back. Taking leave from his newfound 'extended family' assembled
to bid him a grateful farewell, he looks around in vain for Gītā only to find
her awaiting his parting caravan on the wooden bridge at the village boundary,
as she couldn't bear to reveal her sorrow in public. Her reaffirmation of love
is now rather a tragic appeal to return rather for the sake of his homeland
that she presents to him as a wooden chest whose compartments are filled with
an assortment of native herbs, cereals, flowers, and even pebbles, a tangible
memento of his culture:

As he continues on his way looking back through the
rearview mirror, Gītā is praying for him to turn back of his own accord only
to see the caravan gone upon opening her eyes. Mantra-repeating Sîtâ,
who is born of and represents the fertile earth as the basis of community, is
no longer a role assumed for the Râm Lîlâ festival but actually takes possession
of her soul in an attitude of complete surrender and despair.

For all these never-ending exchanges of (love-) glances,
Swades strikes me as a surprisingly 'unsentimental'
(and very focused) movie (by Bollywood standards). Whereas their earlier separation,
just for a day, had made him realize the depth of his feeling for her as a woman,
returning to America to complete his business is suffered as an exile from his
true calling of which Gītā has become but the emotional embodiment. Other than
for Mohan's graphically depicted inner conflict even as (phase 2 of) his NASA
project unfolds before our eyes as a roaring success of a satellite launch,
nothing is shown of his returning to India, the resumption of their courtship,
or even the hint of a marriage ceremony. Instead, we are shown Mohan wrestling
with his 'champion' (pahelwan) friend, the postmaster
(who had earlier played Râvana during Dashera), and quickly throwing his appreciative
opponent to the ground before an admiring crowd that includes Gītā and Kaveriamma:

The primary significance of this scene is that it takes place on the stepped
landings (ghâts) to the lake where stands the Râma temple of Charanpur, the
village taking its name from the (imprints of the) feet of the steadfast Sîtâ
and her loyal consort. The underlying symbolic strategy is, no doubt, the superposition
of three (or four) unions: Mohan's with Gītā (and Kaveriamma), the 'now-returning
Indian' (NRI) with his motherland, and of Râma with Sîtâ (played earlier also
by Gâyatrî playing Gītā). The Light of Diwali shines forth with all its splendor
in Swades only when (electric) power is fully
restored to all through their own independent collective efforts and Râvana
(who these days even dares to usurp the immortal prestige of Râma...) is uprooted
from the heart to make way for the fulfillment of the Mahâtmâ's vision.

The waterside Charanpur temple is not the only anchor for the pervasive imprint
of the Râmâyana and of Hindu mythology upon the
narrative structure of Swades. Immediately after
the first pañcâyat assembly, Mohan is taken on
a tour of the temple ghâts, where he is shown the footprints of the model couple
and learns the significance of the village name. Gītā pines fondly for her absent
lover while sitting at the temple ghâts, which is where her Râmlîlâ is enacted,
and silently urges him to follow her steps in dipping his feet in its cool waters.
After her Râma defeats the village Râvana, his heroine urges the the soiled
NRI to cleanse himself in its holy waters, and the rest of the (extended) family
now throngs around to follow suite. Water and motherhood are indissociable in
the Hindu imagination, which is why Gītā's first challenge to the conceited
NRI is to name the five great rivers of the motherland, starting with the Gangâ
(in the Rig-Vedic period, it would have been a different set of five rivers,
starting with the Sarasvatî, as the most motherly of rivers). Most significantly,
Kaveriamma is herself named after the next among the rivers, the Cauvery in
South India (for non-Hindi audiences who might otherwise leave with the impression
that this is a 'North Indian' movie). When the NRI arrives to be reunited with
his spiritual mother, she is in the midst of massaging a new-born baby, symbolically
assuming the role of midwife to this 'born-again' Indian (this 'connection'
was immediately pointed out to me by Elizabeth, as she was watching the episode
from the DVD over my shoulder). By drawing upon this symbolic repertory, Gowarikar
has, perhaps unawares it seems to me, not only infused his contemporary epic
with mythico-ritual overtones, but has resuscitated the sacrificial (yajña)
ideology that (still) underlies the (subsequent bhakti
elaborations of the) Râmâyana,

Does the camera repeatedly return to and linger on
Gâyatrî's expressive eyes simply because they happen to be her most attractive
physical feature? As windows to the soul, they reveal, of course, how Gītā perceives
and emotionally responds to the world and those around her. Mohan naturally
keeps scrutinizing her (often averted face and) gaze for tell-tale flickers
that might betray the reciprocity, often unacknowledged, that constitutes the
essence of love as an abiding bond (sthâyî-bhâva).
But in peering, so tantalizingly, into the mirror of her 'soul' the lover also
glimpses reflections of himself that distort his self-image for better or for
worse. Much of (the pre-) 'court-ship' consists in attempts—by
both parties in what amounts to a sort of romantic litigation—to
bridge the gap between the (self-) image (of the ego) and its refraction in
the soul of the other, first by staking and countering claims and then, gradually,
by falling in love with the transformation reflection taking shape (like Narcissus
drowning in self-admiration). It is Gītā's newfound fascination with her
reflection in the otherwise familiar mirror that calls forth the joyous abandonment
of self in her first love song (Sâwariyân), for
the loveliness she begins to recognize therein is her enhanced image in the
(now temporarily) absent eyes of her beloved Mohan. As Gītā begins to idolize
Mohan as the flesh-and-blood hero of her most cherished dreams, the latter willy-nilly
transforms himself into the very idol he sees in the eyes of his worshipper.
Having ridiculed her for 'high-flown' ideals that would scare off any 'realistic'
suitor, he finds himself repeating her very words to persuade others to acquiesce
in their own uplifting ("are a woman's hands good only for ornamenting
with henna?" etc.). In this 'win-win' resolution, Mohan has fallen in love
not just with Gītā but with his own pre-figuration in the heartfelt prayers
of this abandoned Sîtâ, and Gītā not just with Mohan but with the (self-) fulfillment
of her dreams of service (sevā) through the agency
of this long-exiled contemporary Râma. The lovers begin to realize that they
never knew who they 'really' were (and could be) until mutual love compels them
to recognize the self in the other. Bhoja's equation of the seeming opposites
of irresistible Eros (śṛṅgāra) and confining
ego-centrism (ahamkâra) is not simply a 'metaphysical'
abstraction, but the 'tantric' resolution of the fundamental formula that governs
all human striving and finds aesthetic codification in Sanskrit poetics and
now in Bollywood.

Those who weren't able to follow the Hindi dialogue in the above easily accessible
clips (that can be also viewed full screen) can still watch the entire
movie (strongly recommended) with English subtitles for free (high bandwidth
for $9.99) at

Rajshri productions seems to be offering Swades (along with
Pâyal kî Jhankâr...) for free due to its
lackluster performance at the box-office among the target audience: American
NRIs. These 'enlightened' progressives have faulted the director Gowarikar on
especially 'intellectual' grounds, for not making a movie other than the one
we just enjoyed. The film keeps dragging on because it's too 'didactic'
(like our epics themselves?); Mohan touches on so many social ills (caste, corruption,
overpopulation, poverty, inefficiency, superstition, etc.) that he's unable
to do justice to any; the villagers exude a naive optimism that would
rapidly evaporate in any NRI who stays back more than a couple of months; and
so this list could go on interminably.
Shahrukh Khan, who anticipated its commercial flop even while rehearsing,
still identified himself with its noble message, and goes so
far as to affirm "I think like my character in
Swades [but] unfortunately I'm not in a position to change the way our
society functions." For me, Swades
is simply a love-story, between a man and a woman, between an Indian and his
motherland, between a Hindu and his (not just Râmâyana)
tradition: when the 'sentiment' (rasa) runs deep,
the problems, though analyzed similarly, are perceived very differently; when
it spreads wide, it finds enough hands to start getting the job done. Perhaps
the 'failure' is really that of its (over-?) 'sophisticated' audiences having
lost touch with themselves?

Why have I dwelt even more insistently on these ephemeral
and 'repetitive' (exchange of) glances than Abhinava has on the impersonal (we
don't even know the names of his lovers let alone anything else about their
relationships...) 'trivialities' of Amaru's over-active amorous imagination,
whose each verse is treasured as a 'pearl' (muktaka)
that when pried open through the techniques of 'suggestion' (dhvani)
becomes an entire drama (nâTyâyitam) all unto
itself? Because they capture a 'sensibility' (sahrdayatva
= 'having a heart') that is shared by South Asians irrespective of religion,
caste, class, and gender. The 'sentimental' tale of the fortuitous and crooked
paths taken by Gītā's haughty riveting stare and condescendingly aloof smile
to reach their final destination of unselfconsciously adoring gaze and contagious
heartfelt laughter, is also the narrative of rediscovering the lost childhood
love for one's motherland as embodying a distinct cultural sensibility. Curiously,
this 'failed' movie now draws appreciative comments on YouTube from Bangladeshis,
Nepalis, etc., even Pakistanis and Afghans, living abroad, in whom it evokes
longings of return from exile. The 'patriotism' of Swades
is not rooted in chauvinism nor even (a narrow and un-Gandhian) 'nationalism'
but in a way of feeling about the world, social relationships, and oneself.
Great works of art, composed for the future, are often not appreciated
by (or even known to) their immediate audiences (in much the same way that Abhinava,
who embodies such sensibility, is not mentioned in the works of his less illustrious
contemporaries).

But the gaze (Sanskrit: darzan)
is central not just to the unruly passions of lovers but also to the Hindu conception
and architecture of the divine: we go to the temple not just to see the Invisible
but to be 'seen' in turn. The 'servant of God' (deva-dâsî)
asks her (both human and transcendent) Lord (in the Tamil movie,
Thillana Mohanambal), "what
is the secret of hiding and looking at me?" before going on to proclaim, "other
than for me, who can (really) see You?" She begins, in fact, by asking "what's
so beautiful (to your eyes)? this temple, or is it this (my statuesque) form?"
But isn't what we actually see in the temple a mere 'idol', perhaps the fetishistic
object of even more self-deluding than the spontaneous 'worship' that these
film-stars evoke in their starry-eyed fans? And how could the formless Absolute
possibly (deign to) 'look at' the finitude of his transitory creatures? Just
as the authentic lover exhibits the self to the beloved only to become this
transfigured image mirrored in the eyes of the other, so too does the transcendent
divinity 'objectified' in the (the temple that houses) idol divine image reflect
back the hidden nature of the ultimate Self. Though there are no longer any
human eyes looking back at (much less desiring) and following the (inner) movements
of the (soul of the) worshipper, the latter is nevertheless voluntarily entering
into a 'personalized' relationship with God that is structured by a shared framework
of myth, ritual, and aesthetic sensibility. Insofar as this environment is cast
'faithfully' in the direct image of an authentic experience of the divine, such
worship amounts, paradoxically, to a process of Self-discovery through interiorizing
the Other! The life of the emotions (rasa) surrounding
ritual worship becomes a medium for (re-) constructing one's (ultimate sense
of) identity by interiorizing the object of devotion (bhakti).
Just as the worldly lover becomes his/her own reflection, Abhinavagupta's 'doctrine
of recognition' (pratyabhijñâ) reconciles gnostic
experience of the Absolute within and the worship of a personal God without,
through the non-dualistic formula of "externalizing the Self onto an (objectivized)
image (that is not really separate)" (âtmânam eva
jñeyî-kuryât, prthak sthiti jñeyam na tu): : the notion of the 'reflected
image' (prati-bimba) is at the core of the 'doctrine
of recognition' (pratyabhijñâ is also called
pratibimba-vâda). So important is the gaze (darzan)
to Hindu bhakti that the (otherwise formless deity)
is often represented iconographically simply (and even very crudely) by its
eyes!

What is the status of the ego-function (aham-kâra)
within this understanding of bhakti? [to be complete]

So important is the gaze that the deity is often represented
iconographically simply (and even crudely) by its eyes! For some 'pious' Muslims,
to be 'seen' by a doe-eyed female, even if the rest of her face (and body)
is wholly covered by the veil of the unknown, seems to be a terrifying
experience (enough to provoke even more terrifying sanctions against the 'weaker'
sex?). Many Hindu bhaktas would ask, however,
how someone incapable of appreciating the light reflected in the eyes of a lover
could possibly see the Light radiating from the Holy Book?

As this concoction (Abhinava's
pânaka-rasa?) was still brewing before my mind's
eye, it struck me, a couple of days back, that I owed it to my readers—and
to myself—to find out who Gâyatrî really is
(e.g., what other films she has acted in...) before posting:

Had I known, as I now discover, that
this modern Sîtâ, making such a magnificent debut in her first and only film,
was actually a glamorous fashion model, who had first met Shahrukh while
modeling together for a publicity stunt, and had to work very hard, with the
help of so many people, to molt into the inspiring role cast for her by the
director's eye, before getting married in real-life to become a mother,

I'm not sure that "looking into the eyes"
of Gītā would have exuded so much rasa and (not
just desh-) bhakti,
as it has till now...

Enjoy!

Sunthar

P.S. My apologies for this rather long 'didactic' post, but this was
not just something I needed to "get off my chest" but also a public
rehearsal for a dense synopsis of Indian aesthetics that I'm currently working
on....

[Rest of this thread at Sunthar's comments on Shrinivas' post (07 Oct 2007)
at

[The French email (citations from my analysis were already
in English) to Paul Paumier has been translated here into English. Click on
the link to the original post at Abhinava forum for the French version]

Friends,

Diwali greetings to all!

Along with a follow-up to my review yesterday of (not just the 'aesthetics'
of) Swades, which is now available at

Thanks for all these delicious treats for Diwali that you are sharing so
generously with your readers!

I'd like to invite all of you to watch the village theatrical representation
of Sîtâ's redemption in the film Swades (on the relation between NRIs and India)

--------------

We may now go on to enjoy (Gītā playing the role of) the ascetic SÎtâ, spurning
the advances of a rustic Râvana (played by the postmaster), but through the
eyes of her virtuous husband Râma (or of the love-stricken hero Mohan who interrupts
the performance?):

For all these never-ending exchanges of often ambiguous (love-) glances,
Swades strikes me as a surprisingly 'unsentimental' (and very focused) movie
(by Bollywood standards). Other than for Mohan's graphically depicted inner
conflict even as (phase 1 of) his NASA project unfolds before our eyes as a
roaring success of a satellite launch, nothing at all is shown of his actually
returning to India, the resumption of their courtship, or even the hint of a
marriage ceremony. Instead, we are shown Mohan wrestling with his 'champion'
(pahelwan) friend, the postmaster (who had earlier played Râvana during Dashera),
and quickly throwing his appreciative opponent to the ground before an admiring
crowd that includes Gītā and Kaveriamma:

The primary significance of the scene is that it takes place on the stepped
landings (ghâts) to the lake where stands the Râma temple of Charanpur, the
village taking its name from the (imprints of the) feet of the steadfast Sîtâ
and her consort. The underlying symbolic strategy is, no doubt, the superposition
of three (or four) unions: Mohan's with Gītā (and Kaveriamma), the 'now-returning
Indian' NRI) with his motherland, and of Râma with Sîtâ (played earlier
also by Gâyatrî playing Gītā). The Light of Diwali is restored in Swades only
when electricity is fully restored for all through their own independent collective
efforts and the Râvana (who these days even dares to usurp the immortal prestige
of Râma...) is uprooted from the heart to make way for the fulfillment of the
Mahâtmâ's vision.

-------------

If you'd like to explore further 'intellectually' this taste (rasa)
of shared joy, you may read my review of Swades
from the perspective of Abhinavagupta's aesthetics.

I am really proud of Swades. It is a fantastic product. It is touching
so many people in so many ways. If people like it they speak of it very
passionately and that gives me goose bumps. We worked hard and that it has
touched people it was gratifying. When I saw the film I was concentrating
more on myself because it was the first time that I have acted or danced
or even delivered a dialogue. It was a shock and pleasure to see myself
and there was a nostalgic feel because I kept recalling how and where each
scene was shot, etc. It becomes a very nostalgic feeling. I must say I came
out thrilled that the film had turned out so amazing. You can’t call
it preachy. If you understand the message in the film you wont find it preachy.
It’s the nature of the story. People have received this message very
well.

After directing the epic-scaled, Academy Award nominated period drama “Lagaan”,
Ashutosh Gowarikar settles for simplicity. Shahrukh Khan finally sheds off
his star persona, enacting a refreshingly subtle, but powerful performance
thanks to the director’s sensitive storytelling. Though he introduces
his protagonist as a pragmatist, Gowarikar carefully imbibes Mohan Bhargava
with the emotional capacity to act passionately within rational means. As
was witnessed in “Lagaan”, Gowarikar extends that rationality
and articulation to every supporting character, developing each one with
the aim of influencing his protagonist’s goal. One such character,
Gita inspires Mohan through her own example, to lead and create change.
The serenely beautiful Gayatri Joshi makes a classy and confident debut
in a strong, well-written role carrying herself with unassuming grace and
poise. Humor is skillfully played with, extracted out of the village-folk’s
innocence. [...] Gowarikar’s writing
is strongly focused, characterization once again, proving to be his forte.
Like “Lagaan”, “Swades” too tells the story of good
triumphing over evil. This time however, evil has no face but is rather
equated with regressive ideology. The enemy lies within in the form of passive
acceptance of injustice by those who suffer it and ignorance by those who
witness it. Mohan Bhargava helps Charanpur’s villagers identify this
enemy, teaching them to fight it, while at the same time, learning from
them, how to fight the enemy within himself. Javed Akhtar’s lyrics
effectively ponder over these emotions through powerful musical interludes
such as “Yeh Jo Des Hai Mera” and “Pal Pal Hai
Bhaari.” [...] Despite the negligible
technical flaws, Gowarikar succeeds as a storyteller because his script
has its heart just at the right place. A simple but inspirational experience, “Swades”
must be seen by every Indian, not to be educated about his or her country’s
problems, but rather to be reminded about a responsibility to act and make
a difference. Patriotism has a new face.

Realizing that I had not sufficiently highlighted the core 'scientific' theme
of Gâyatrîs "full-frontal smiling gaze" nor the continuing 'mythical'
hold of Sîtâ over the movie, I have filled out the relevant passages so as to
also bring out the contrast.

What if Mohan had attempted to persuade Gītā to accompany him back to America
by insisting that Sîtâ would have rather followed Râma into exile? Is it
simply an unseemly desire for 'independence' that makes his wife-to-be
stay behind?

Here's where it's important to recall that Sîtâ is actually, already in the
Râmâyana, the very embodiment of the prosperity of the community as
rooted in the native land: had Gītā crossed the bridge in pursuit she'd no longer
be Sîtâ...

An auspicious sight on this Diwali to bear witness,
once again, to the redeeming of Sîtâ's honor and the (re-) establishment
of dharma (note how real and present
all this is to the villagers)! [...see initial post for
complete text...] Mantra-repeating Sîtâ, who is born of and represents
the fertile earth as the basis of community, is no longer a role assumed for
the Râm Lîlâ festival but actually takes possession of her soul in an attitude
of complete surrender and despair. For all these never-ending exchanges of (love-)
glances, Swades strikes me as a surprisingly
'unsentimental' (and very focused) movie (by Bollywood standards). Whereas their
earlier separation, just for a day, had made him realize the depth of his feeling
for her as a woman, returning to America to complete his business is suffered
as an exile from his true calling of which Gītā has become but the emotional
embodiment.

>

>

>

As this concoction (Abhinava's
pânaka-rasa?) was still brewing before my mind's
eye, it struck me, a couple of days back, that I owed it to my readers—and
to myself—to find out who Gâyatrî really is
(e.g., what other films she has acted in...) before posting:
[...see initial post...] I'm not sure that "looking
into the eyes" of Gītā would have exuded so much
rasa and (not just desh-)
bhakti, as it has till now...

Powerful emotions are engendered through the conflict of values and their
resolution; the personal values of the spectator unavoidably color one’s
perception, impeding or facilitating this identification with the protagonists
so crucial to the evocation of the intended rasa. [...]
Classical Sanskrit theater thus reflects a convergence of aesthetics and ethics:
a traditional Indian exposed to such cultural pedagogy from all sides would
often act appropriately because this was not just morally right but also a matter
of good taste. [...]The permanent tension
and possible conflict between the socio-religious norms governing human behavior
and the imaginative exploitation of the latter for procuring public delight
is explicitly discussed by subsequent rhetoricians and the verdict is almost
invariably in favor of curtailing artistic liberties. But is 'propriety' (aucitya)
a moral ('social')
or an aesthetic category or, rather, symptomatic of the 'confused'
overlapping of the two domains? Though morality and art constitute distinct
domains, - each with its own practices,
rules, and rationality - they are also
intertwined through their very nature, particularly in the context of normative
theater. Over and above the inevitable conflicts over where (external) boundaries
are to be drawn, the poetics of suggestion often revolves around the (at least
imaginative) transgression of social norms, the connoisseur’s ability
to appreciate their validity even while sympathetically entertaining the possibility
(and even likelihood) of their circumvention (if not suspension). The uncertain
and ambivalent status of rasâbhâsa
with regard to 'good'
and 'bad' taste
is no doubt symptomatic of a larger cultural 'project' where
the (rigid external) observance of (binding socio-religious) norms is gradually
subsumed within a generalized aesthetic sensibility that is keenly attuned to
(the 'irregularities' of)
particular context and individual circumstance. Born of and appealing to a highly
diverse society - where each (sub-)
caste is (self-) regulated by its distinct and often conflicting norms
- 'Hindu' taste is the product
of constant (re-) 'negotiation'.[ad. notes #47-52]

The next (literally) starry-eyed episode is the rare screening of a romantic
movie that the whole village, including the untouchable families and children,
has gathered around to watch from both sides of the large screen that separates
the high from the low. The movie ("The union of memories") is about
(the songs and sentiments surrounding) a marriage celebration, and naturally
the wider intrigue includes Mohan and Gītā exchanging furtive glances (while
the heroine sings: "you've stolen my heart" in this very manner) during
the sensitive sequences: Bollywood today, like the classical Sanskrit theater
in its own time, draws upon a shared emotional sensibility even while reinforcing
and generalizing the same through providing a common idiom and frame of
reference that transcends barriers of language and caste:
[...] When the electricity fails at the lyrical
highpoint, Mohan saves the night by spontaneously improvising a public (including
adult) education class in recognizing (and reaching up for) the constellations
to the tune of A. R. Rehman's score ("this star, that star, each star").
As he begins to hop back and forth between the opposing sides of the screen
to ensure maximum audience participation, the postmaster simply takes down this
barrier while everyone, including the village elders, look on with appreciative
consternation at the illuminating antics of this 'foreigner' (NRI). Instead
of indulging in accusatory rhetoric, he 'simply' points them towards a common
goal to which they could all put their shoulders.

What happens in the modern context when we are faced with diametrically opposed
notions of propriety: should the (high and low among the) village audience enjoying
a Bollywood movie be separated by the screen (of untouchability)?

What's important to bear in mind while enjoying the above clip from Swades,
is that the sentiments (rasa) are shared by all regardless of caste (age,
gender, station, or religion) and serve to mitigate and even to dissolve (partly
and temporarily) the less visible social barriers. Given the internal diversity
of the community and the collective perception of organic unity,
continual (re-) negotiation must have been central to the dynamic vitality of the
traditional organization. This is readily apparent even from a ritual perspective,
as in the community festivals around (the headman assuming the role of) the king,
where the untouchable typically plays a crucial role (as in the Pachali Bhairab
Jatra studied by Elizabeth).

Inheriting the sensibility of the classical Sanskrit theater, cinematography
here takes the tension between art and morality to its logical conclusion by
appealing to our 'good taste' in 'resolving' the contemporary ethical
dilemma of Swades: instead of (overtly) 'politicizing' the 'big
screen' to squawk incessantly and cheeply (like " headless chickens" across
the Internet?) for or against caste discrimination, Gowarikar seeks to transform
the Indian sensitivity to differences from within.

A happy Thanksgiving to all our American friends!

Sunthar

P.S. Those who can't follow the Hindi dialogue can now view all the relevant
clips with English subtitles...all similarly remixed to illustrate our
hermeneutics of love, devotion, and service in Swades:

Gte-to
daleko [Irina's Russian song rendering homage to Swades, especially to the
courtship of the eyes)

What you just said
tumne yeh kya kah diya
has dispelled the darkness from my nights
merii raato.n ke a.ndhere jaise DHal gaye
it's only after meeting you I have learned what dreams are
tumse hi to milke mai.n ne jaana hai sapne kya hote hai.n
it's only after meeting you I have learned how a heart is lost
tumse hi to milke mai.n ne jaana hai dil kaise khote hai.n
dearer to me than the moonbeam
chaa.ndanii se bhii pyaarii mujhko
is the shadow of your eyelashes
in palko.n ki chhaao.n (chha.nvo.n)
you have created in my heart
tumne basaaya mere dil me.n
a village of dreams
ek sapnon ka gaaon (gaa.nv)
[...snipped...]
how the days sparkle and the nights are scented
ab jaise din chamke raate.n mahakii hai
now that you are my partner
tum ho jo hamraahii
without you I was incomplete
tum bin jaise mai.n thii adhuurii
now I'm complete
puurii ho gayii huu.n mai.n
now I have got the whole world
tumko paake jag paaya hai
but I have lost myself
par khud kho gayii huu.n mai.n
now we both realize what life is all about
ham dono.n ne ab jaana jiine ka matlab kya hai
what life was like and what it's like now!
pahale kya thii ab kya hai yeh zi.ndagii
now we both realize how wonderful the world is
ham dono.n ne ab jaana duniya kitnii pyaarii hai
we have received so much happiness
paayii kitnii saarii hai hamne khushii
Look....
dekho na....

Dekho na (extract from love-song that accompanies first full confessions
of Mohan and Gītā)

Does the camera repeatedly return to and linger on Gâyatrî's expressive eyes
simply because they happen to be her most attractive physical feature? As windows
to the soul, they reveal, of course, how Gītā perceives and emotionally responds
to the world and those around her. Mohan naturally keeps scrutinizing her (often
averted face and) gaze for tell-tale flickers that might betray the reciprocity,
often unacknowledged, that constitutes the essence of love as an abiding bond
(sthâyî-bhâva). But in peering, so tantalizingly,
into the mirror of her 'soul' the lover also glimpses reflections of himself
that distort his self-image for better or for worse. Much of (the pre-) 'court-ship'
consists in attempts - by both parties
in what amounts to a sort of romantic litigation
- to bridge the gap between the (self-) image (of the ego) and its refraction
in the soul of the other, first by staking and countering claims and then, gradually,
by falling in love with the transformed
and magnified reflection (like Narcissus drowning in the
pool of self-admiration). It is Gītā's newfound fascination with
her reflection in the otherwise familiar mirror that calls forth the joyous
abandonment of self in her first love song (Sâwariyân),
for the loveliness she begins to recognize therein is her enhanced portrait
in the (now temporarily absent) eyes of her beloved Mohan. As Gītā begins to
idolize Mohan as the flesh-and-blood hero of her most cherished dreams, the
latter willy-nilly transforms himself into the very idol he sees in the eyes
of his worshipper. Having ridiculed her for 'high-flown' ideals that would scare
off any 'realistic' suitor, he finds himself repeating her very words to persuade
others to acquiesce in their own uplifting ("are a woman's hands good only
for ornamenting with henna?" etc.). In this 'win-win' resolution, Mohan
has fallen in love not just with Gītā but with his own pre-figuration in
the heartfelt prayers of this abandoned Sîtâ, and Gītā not just with Mohan but
with the (self-) fulfillment of her dreams of service (sevā)
through the agency of this long-exiled contemporary Râma. The lovers begin to
realize that they never knew who they 'really' were (and could be) until mutual
love compels them to recognize the self in the other. Bhoja's equation of the
seeming opposites of (irresistible) eros (śṛṅgāra)
and (constricted) ego-centrism
(ahamkâra) is not simply a 'metaphysical' abstraction,
but the 'tantric' resolution of the fundamental formula that governs all human
striving,its aesthetic codification in Sanskrit
poetics is now displayed universally on the Bollywood (and our computer)
screen.

But the gaze (Sanskrit:
darzana) is central not just to the unruly passions of lovers
but also to the Hindu conception and architecture of the divine: we go to the
temple not just to see the Invisible but to be 'seen' in turn. The 'servant
of God' (deva-dâsî)
asks her (both human and transcendent) Lord (in the Tamil movie,
Thillana Mohanambal), "what
is the secret of hiding and looking at me?" before going on to proclaim, "other
than for me, who can (really) see You?" She begins, in fact, by asking "what's
so beautiful (to Your eyes)? this
temple, or is it this (my statuesque) form?" But isn't what we actually
see in the temple a mere 'idol', perhaps the fetishistic object of even more
self-deluding than the spontaneous 'worship' that these film-stars evoke in
their starry-eyed fans? And how could the formless Absolute possibly (deign
to) 'look at' the finitude of its transitory creatures? Just as the authentic
lover exhibits the self to the beloved only to become this transfigured image
mirrored in the eyes of the other, so too does the transcendent God 'objectified'
in the (temple that houses the) divine
image reflect back the hidden nature of the ultimate Self. Though there are
no longer any human eyes looking back at (much less desiring) and following
the (inner) movements of the (soul of the) worshipper, the latter is nevertheless
voluntarily entering into a 'personalized' relationship with God that is structured
by a shared framework of myth, ritual, and aesthetic sensibility. Insofar as
this transforming environment is cast 'faithfully' as
the direct 'reflection'
of an authentic experience of the divine, such worship amounts, paradoxically,
to a process of Self-discovery through assimilating the Other. The life of the
emotions (rasa)
surrounding ritual worship becomes a medium for (re-) constructing one's (ultimate
sense of) identity by interiorizing the object of devotion (bhakti).
Just as the worldly lover becomes his/her own reflection, Abhinavagupta's 'doctrine
of recognition' (pratyabhijñâ)
reconciles gnostic experience of the Absolute within and the worship of a personal
God without, through the non-dualistic formula of "externalizing the Self
onto an (objectivized) image (that is not really separate)" (âtmânam
eva jñeyî-kuryât, prthak sthiti jñeyam na tu): the notion
of the 'reflected image' (prati-bimba) is at the core
of the Pratyabhijñâ (which is also called pratibimba-vâda).
So important is the gaze (darzana) to
Hindu bhakti that the (otherwise formless)
deity is often represented iconographically simply (and often very crudely)
by its eyes!

I originally decided to study classical literature for my BA at BHU simply because
it seemed that this option would plunge me headlong into the intricacies of the
Sanskrit language that would be the precious key to understanding Indian philosophy.
So you may well imagine my consternation on having to read, memorize, and even learn
to enjoy introductory verses like this little gem:

Look
upon me again [this time with favor? - SV], oh young
maiden! [drSTim dehi punar bâle]
you with [such beautiful] eyes elongated like petals of the lotus,
[kamalâyata-locane]
It's well-known in this world since age immemorial
[zrûyate hi purâ loke]
That the antidote for poison is poison!
[viSasya viSam auSadham]

Enough to strike a young heart, steeped in the sublime imagination and personalized
world of [English] 'Romantic' literature [Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, etc.], with
the mind-boggling 'contradiction' of Sanskrit erudites, steeped in the loftiest
abstractions of the Vedânta, indulging in such 'trivial' celebrations of silly adolescent
eyes (not to mention heavy hips and budding breasts...). Though Amaru's love-verses
are far more sophisticated, the underlying aesthetics is the same.

But after cowering, with Mohan, in the unflinching face of Gītā's (aloof condescending
smile and) riveting stare:

What director Gowarikar has done is to fill out the extended interval between
the (here more than just two) doses of poison with much moral, intellectual, and
spiritual substance, by carefully weaving an entire narrative of idealism,
patriotism, and reform into the tortuous evolution of the love-gaze, whose
aesthetics still remains encapsulated as it were in the above 'silly' verse (that
actually lends itself to unfolding into an unending release of Bollywood movies...).

[See] how gracefully
she walks, this beauty adorning herself...
just like lightning descending from the heavens!
Applying
bindi
of concentrated moonlight to her forehead,
decorating the parting of her hair with stardust,
smearing her eye-lashes with the darkness of the night,
displaying mehndi
designs of her heart's desires,
[see] her pirouette as she sways by with lilting gait.
How coyly she dazzles, this beauty adorning herself...
just like lightning descending from the heavens!

Dekho na (extract from love-song that accompanies first
full confessions of Mohan and Gītā)

Though Gītā welcomes Mohan as a guest into her village home,
she maintains a cool distance that is guarded especially by
her reserved and averted gaze. She not only doesn't approve
of cocky better-than-thou NRIs, but is also wary of this rival
for the affection of Kaveriamma. Mohan retires to spend the
first night in his caravan where he continues to work late on
his NASA project. He inadvertently notices Gītā at her table
engrossed in schoolwork unawares that he's peering at her curiously
through the window: he catches her disengaging into a pensively
languorous mood. A 'voyeuristic' scene that might be construed
as a very restrained and sublimated psychological echo of the
'languid maiden' (âlasya-kanyâ)
of Sanskrit erotics, who is all the more enchanting for relapsing
into a natural unselfconscious state (the director's intention
becomes even more apparent upon watching the discarded scene
entitled "Mohan Falling in Love" when he wakes up
indoors to the soft humming of Gītā watering the potted plants
after her bath). The friendly acknowledgement from his courteous
eyes, when she eventually catches him looking, is rebuffed with
a blank indifferent stare before she switches off the light
abruptly to spurn his intrusion into her privacy. However, the
next morning she can't avoid the intricate eye-communication
through which he forces her into unwilling complicity in his
bad habit of smoking, as he silently urges her to hide the incriminating
cigarette pack from being discovered by Kaveriamma. His thankful
nod before being obliged to respond to the rustic amazement
at his well-equipped house on wheels is, this time, greeted
with a haughty upward turning away of the gaze that seems to
be saying: "I'm not impressed, nor even really interested.
So why don't you stop making eyes at me once and for all?"
After all, even the God with the most 'captivating' (mohana)
eyes ever seen still has to make such great efforts and endure
much pain before the feminine soul willingly bares all to his
relentless gaze!

Just as a dancer,
having exhibited herself to the spectator,
desists from dancing, so too does prakriti
(creative principle = woman) desist,
having manifested herself to the Self.
Without deriving benefits, this versatile servant [of God?
deva-dâsî]
serves unselfishly in multifarious ways
the purposes of the Self-centered Man (puruSa
= ultimate witness),
who has no (natural) qualities (guNa)
whatever.
Nothing, in my opinion, is more delicate than the woman (prakriti).
Having once become aware of having been beheld,
she does not again expose herself to the gaze of the Self.

Sânkhya Kârikâs
(xvii) of Îzvara-krishna

Have our Sanskrit poets and Hindu sculptors lavished so much
attention on the 'languid maiden' (âlasya-kanyâ)
simply because they were in love with the feminine figure and its
delicate gestures to the extent of richly indulging its varied (self-)
conceits: why are so many temple walls adorned with women wholly
engrossed in adorning themselves from head to foot? They are spied
upon in their natural state and caught unawares in various stages
of (un-) dress, even engaged in water-sports (jala-krîDâ)
while bathing: what's so appealing about the
âlasya-kanyâ, even when she seems
to be narcissistically decorating her own reflection in the mirror,
is that she's neither trying to put on a show nor veiling her inner
mood from the public gaze. These celestial beauties (apsaras)
have so captivated the Hindu imagination that their stylized postures
and subtlest graces are not only depicted in classical, even sacred,
dances by equally captivating doe-eyed earthly women, but also superimposed
on primordial nature herself. The night shedding her darkness, for
example, is compared through intricate and suggestive figures of
speech to a lovely mistress, whose star-studded garments are slipping
away of their own accord as she is embraced by her impetuous lover,
the moon. The damsel is depicted in the Odissi dance above as if
Nature herself were ornamenting (śṛṅgāra)
her limbs in a languorously amorous mood: the lilting gait of these
dallying women strikes the heart so suddenly causing our own eyes
to flash wide open in wonder as at lightning descending (like the
apsaras themselves) from heaven. So
too does Mohan's love-song compare Gītā's confession to Night baring
the deepest secrets of her heart. The celebrated instance of "rosy-fingered"
Dawn baring her breasts shamelessly, like a seductive dancer to
her lover (note how these youthful dancers, coyly but insistently,
compare, with suggestive hand-gestures, the gentle undulation of
their gait to the rounded fullness of their breasts...), is enshrined
in no less a scripture than the Rig-Veda!

But what justification is there for assimilating Gītā to this
classic portrait when she is merely stretching her limbs a little
as she emerges from her late-night engrossment in her schoolwork
and does not seem to be regarding herself in the least, even inwardly?
In the omitted scene, Mohan is half-awakened from his sleep in Gītā's
courtyard only to see her dream-like, wet hair all bundled up in
a towel, and can't help ogling at this unexpected treat (for fear
that she might disappear if he wakes up). In the amusing cat-and-mouse
interaction that follows, she soon realizes that his eyes are glued,
following her everywhere, though he feigns sleep (with his head
levitating above the pillow...). Her incredulous then sarcastically
amused look perhaps betrays just a tinge of pleasure at being an
object so worthy of her adversary's attention. What is so attractive
is indeed her state of nature (just after a bath) that is highlighted
even further by the nurturing of the plants within. In fact, she
modestly desists from the unwitting exhibition shortly after apprehending
the voyeur behind the closed eyelids. Director Gowarikar had judiciously
discarded this intimate glimpse into what household life in unavoidable
proximity might have been like, and replaced it rather with the
more antagonistic duel of the eyes from and in the caravan. Gītā's
beauty is all the more striking when its physical basis is left
understated, and is instead bolstered by a personality rendered
appealing by its sheer dedication to her chosen vocation and coupled
with a self-sufficiency born of intelligence and education. The
sacrosanct Hindu tradition of (male) 'voyeurism' (bhoktâ
= 'enjoyer') has not been negated, rather its prized object is now
being 'enjoyed' (bhogyâ, in Abhinava's
aesthetic and tantric terminology, means 'woman') as much, if not
even more, for qualities and accomplishments that were once the
privileged fief of learned and 'gifted' courtesans. Conversely,
as this modern Râmâyana draws to
a close with Mohan's departure, Gītā's eyes no longer speak the
language, however camouflaged and unwitting, of seduction but of
love's self-abandon elevated to a quasi-religious devotion. She
gradually desists from attempting to charm her 'charmer' (Mohan)
even through her lively intellect and the moral force of her personality
that constitute her (more than just second-) nature. By the
time Mohan returns to settle down in Caranpur, he has already 'seen
through' Gītā, has worked through his passionate attachment to the
woman of his (waking) dreams, who—instead
of blinding him vainly with her beauty—has
helped him come to grips with his deeper self.

Whereas the (dream-vision of the) self-adorning nymph of yore,
unaware of her graceful movements being intently observed, was thereby
rendered all the more beautiful, the dancers competing to depict
her on the stage now are craving for and basking in the adulation
of a huge and cheering hall of spectators (not to mention ourselves
looking on). Does this imply that the
âlasya-kanyâ, as opposed to her flesh-and-blood
impersonator, was not 'self-conscious': but why then bother to heighten
one's natural (feminine) charm so elaborately if the covetous (male)
gaze had not been interiorized to the point of being omnipresent?
On the other hand, if the dancers were 'self-conscious', in the
typical sense of being intruded upon by their sense of personal
identity, they would not be able to perform so well by losing themselves
completely and now effortlessly in the rigorous discipline of the
dance. This show has indeed been staged for the delectation of not
just the human spectators but, first and foremost, as an offering
to the 'Lord of the World' (Jagan-nâtha), whose idol has remained
in the background witnessing all the inner movements of these embodied
souls: his pupils light up at the very beginning and very end of
the dance, during which interval he mostly withdraws into the darkness
like a hidden voyeur surveying the entire spectacle in which we
ourselves are unwitting actors (who imagine ourselves to be spectators).
Indeed, the bright-eyed idol appears to be contained within the
lighted orb of a giant all-seeing pupil. Such dances are still regularly
performed in complete privacy solely for the eyes and enjoyment
of the Lord of the World by his faithful 'servants' (deva-dâsî)
at his Orissan temple in Puri. If (feminine) Nature (prakriti)
stands apart as distinct from the (masculine) Self (puruSa)—as
claimed by the Sânkhya, at least in its late post-Buddhist reworkings—why
do all these (no longer just Hindu) women continue to dance, now
even on YouTube, and why do we (no longer just Indians) persist
in watching, again and again, with unceasing fascination (camat-kâra)
as if we are being yet again struck with lightning for the very
first time? Elevated to the supreme matrix of creative energy (zakti),
the Female (prakriti) in Abhinava's
Trika doctrine is no longer distinct from the passive (ziva)
Male (puruSa)
but constitutes the innate 'reflexivity' (praty-avamarza)
of Self-Consciousness.

Having inherited, transformed, and generalized the aesthetic
sensibility of the world of classical Sanskrit,
Swades dramatizes before our eyes
the manner in which the mass appeal of Bollywood may be harnessed
to facilitate our (not just male :-) ability to 'see through' the
woman, not so that she may retire in shame to the most domesticated
corner of the home (-land) but assume her rightful place beside
the man to be gazed at and enjoyed in all her (not just physical)
beauty...

Starting in haste in her
eagerness,
speeding back through inborn bashfulness,
Again urged forward with those familiar coaxings of her kinswomen,
Seized with trepidation before her husband on her first meeting,
With sprouting horripilation as she was embraced by the
laughing Hara;
May this fair Gaurî be ever favorable to you!
[invocatory verse to Harsha's love-comedy,
Ratnâvalî]

[266>] It is the mention of the
eagerness (autsukya) and the bashfulness
(hrî) that throws into sharp contrast
the hastening forth and the turning back and makes them appear mutually
incongruous for, in fact, both these conflicting transitory emotions
arise from the single underlying abiding emotion (sthâyin)
of love (rati). Similarly, her terror
in the presence of Hara [Shiva], also arising from deep love, is
only half the reason for her sprouting horripilation. The hairs
standing on end is also symptomatic of intense and indescribable
bliss and this meaning, this transitory emotion of joy (harsha),
although unmentioned by name, is clearly suggested by her being
embraced by Hara while in this condition. The sprouting horripilation
plays a role analogous to the verbal pun in jokes: it simultaneously
reveals fear (mentioned) and bliss (unmentioned but evident) and
the incongruity of the two evokes hāsya
[humor] in the onlooker. What sprouted as fear no doubt blossomed
as bliss. If the transitory trepidation (sâdhvasa)
had not been mentioned there would have been no bisociation
[split perception] centering on the
manifestation of horripilation. That all these reactions of Gaurî
are seen in an incongruous light by Hara is indicated by his laughter
and thereby the connoisseur (sahRdaya)
too is induced to focus his attention, through the eyes of Hara
himself as it were, on the presented incongruities. Another incongruity
is that her very attempts to conceal her overpowering love only
reveal it all the more [<266 - 267>]
forcefully and renders her all the more charming as a determinant
(vibhâva) of love (śṛṅgāra).
[...] But why is this an example of “love
with humor as ancillary” (sahāsya-śṛṅgāra)
and not of humor itself as arising from the “semblance of
love” (zRngârâbhâsa)? Because
all the transitory emotions, consequent reactions (anubhâvas),
and determinants are suggestive of love (rati),
and do not contradict the latter as in the case of Râvana’s
love for Sîtâ. The incongruity is only between the transitory emotions
(fear and bliss) and between the consequents (hastening and retreating),
and the hāsya produced with these
as determinants (vibhâvas) is itself
a transitory emotion of śṛṅgāra, for
its constituents are all arising from love. Further, it should be
noted that, though both Gaurî and Hara are receptacles (âzrayas)
of mutual love, it is only Hara who is the
âzraya of hâsa.
[<267]

[This is awesome--I haven't heard this bhajan in a while--I love
the video for Meera--It's soo cute!! - NeilsNimkar] [Krishna apparently
doesn't leave his devotees here...pulls her dress? Then, why is
the camera on her lips, who has bad intentions here, Krishna or
viewer? This is the reason Hinduism is going down the drain, mingle
religion and sex. - yenchant] [This is the first time in the film
we see adult Meera. I believe the director is trying to establish
that she's blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but hasn't forsaken
her devotion to Krishna. Both these facts are important later in
the story when she is forced to marry a prince from a neighboring
kingdom. - godofpathos] [Thanks for the clarification. I do hate
Bollywood and any movie telling me the story of Meera or Krishna.
They would rather keep themselves to shaky the booty movies with
Madhuri or Ash. Whenever they depict religion, they suck. Moreover,
these Latha or Asha kill me with their style of singing bhajans
and movie songs in the same tone. Whatever it is, don't get me wrong.
I do like Indian culture, but they suck mixing religion, sex and
entertainment.]

[Hi, I'm not sure why you posted Paro's marriage as a reply to
my clip from Swades. I don't see
the connection at all. - Sunthar]

[Hi
Sunthar, I see in both movies one person is injured on forehead,
the actor [Shahrukh Khan - SV]
who hurts a woman in one has been hurt by a woman in another
on the same body's segment [forehead
- SV]. Apparently the
characters which hurt are facing vanity or pride, or at least it
is their feeling. Resemblances are the reasons for my video response.
Still when I saw that scene in one of these movies it reminds the
scene in the other one, ever. That's all. (...) Mattia P.S. Of course
I like Swades movie too, more indeed,
for the Bhakti scene. I can see how I was when I saw this scene
for the first time standing by the side of Râvana for my atheist/Marxist
education and I can see how I am when I see now the same scene standing
by the side of Râma for growing Buddhist. - Mattia]

[Hi
Mattia, I've finally decided to approve your video response of Devdas
striking Paro with the pearl necklace but with some reservation:
Quite apart from the deliberate (even if impulsive) violence against
the woman to scar her permanently (not just physically but also
emotionally), the aesthetic context here is that of anger, jealousy,
spite, pride, and conceit. The Swades
case of the panicked Gītā striking out at Mohan with the
duster is, in this sense, quite the opposite: she's already falling
for him but not enough to admit this to herself and, above all,
not ready to be caught by others in such a compromising situation.
This would become especially clear when we juxtapose to this scene
the one (that director Gowarikar rightly omitted from the movie)
of Gītā nursing the wound on his forehead at home, while he complains
to Kaveriamma that he was attacked by a wild cat that he had thought
was tame enough to risk trying to be friendly :-) What a beautiful
movie! Regards, Sunthar]

Just as a dancer [...]
does not again expose herself to the gaze of the Self.

Sânkhya Kârikâs
(xvii) of Îzvara-krishna

Friends,

Sexual harassment, as every Indologist worth his/her salt ought to
know, has been raised to such a fine art in the Hindu tradition that
these days Indians as a whole take it to be a God-given prerogative,
without which there is rarely a Bollywood movie that would survive the
box-office. Perhaps the most incriminating instance of such conduct
is where the 'enterprising' male, often resorting to physical force,
traps the woman into a vulnerable situation so that we may all enjoy
and liberally comment on her helplessness. Such macho behavior is amply
demonstrated by the Hindu gods, each with his own trademarked style
of politically incorrect behavior towards the weaker sex.

Krishna harassing Râdhâ:

Having inherited, transformed, and generalized the aesthetic sensibility
of the world of classical Sanskrit, Swades
dramatizes before our eyes the manner in which the mass appeal of Bollywood
may be harnessed to facilitate our (not just male :-) ability to 'see
through' the woman, not so that she may retire in shame to the most
domesticated corner of the home (-land) but assume her rightful place
beside the man to be gazed at and enjoyed in all her (not just physical)
beauty...